


My Heart in Your Fist

by ziusura



Series: press on me; we are endless beings [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feelings Jam, First Date, M/M, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3364085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson never thought <i>feelings</i> would come into this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart in Your Fist

**Author's Note:**

> warning: there's implications of disordered eating in the first scene. It's not a theme and it's not reoccurring--it's caused by anxiety in this instance and the character eats in the rest of the fic, but I still wanted to warn for it just in case!
> 
> Another installment in "Jackson likes getting punched in the face." This was supposed to be done in time for valentines day but that worked out so well apparently haha. I wanted to try and embed photos (text messages really) and still have it accessible for those who use screenreaders or download fics and the likes, so let me know if it works. 
> 
> If you were unable to read the last one because of the rape tag, but still want to continue on, the important facts from the last are: Jackson and Stiles got very drunk, and Jackson especially was in a weird desperate headspace (unable to truly consent). They slept together, and Jackson regretted it upon waking the next morning. Morning after Danny guessed that Jackson and Stiles had something going on, but Jackson never confirmed nor denied.

Stiles was ignoring him.

At first Jackson hadn’t minded it—he could pretend none of that shit from the party and before had happened, could finally breathe again without the unease and tightness in his chest. Everything was normal and as it should be.

Except Stiles wouldn’t look at him. It had been over a month and Stiles _still_ wouldn’t fucking look at him. The ease and comfort of being ignored lasted less than his bruise from the party did, and he couldn’t figure out why the hell it bothered him so much.

Jackson ran his thumb across the serrated edge of the cap on his school milk bottle, flexing his fingers against the neck, and glared hard across the lunchroom at the back of Stilinski’s stupid fucking head. His leg jiggled under the table, and it was just as much unsettled energy as it was anger at that point.

Danny shot him a look from across the table, staring down at Jackson’s untouched lunch and then back at his face.

“I don’t care. You can have it,” Jackson said, though he was well aware that wasn’t what Danny was trying to say, and pushed the tray with his free hand until it met the edge of Danny’s. He’d just lost his appetite lately, is all, and Stiles still wouldn’t turn around.

Lydia didn’t look up from her phone as she grabbed a french fry off of Jackson’s tray, clearly less unperturbed by Jackson’s actions lately than Danny. Probably texting her new fuck buddy.

Danny sighed, and pushed the tray back to Jackson. “You’ve got swim practice today don’t you,” he said, not even phrasing it like a question, then looked back at the food pointedly.

“I’m not hungry,” Jackson said, putting enough heat in his voice to make it sound like a finality, and sent the tray even harder into Danny’s.

The noise was enough for Lydia to look up from her phone, and Jackson’s mouth flattened under her gaze. “Jesus _Christ_ , Jackson,” she said, and she caught Jackson’s eyes. “You’re going to give yourself back problems with all that stress you’re carrying, sit up straight and relax,” she said, voice hard, and Jackson didn’t even think about it before his back went ramrod straight and he forced himself to lower his shoulders, eyes not leaving Lydia’s.

He thought nothing of it at first, maybe even a little relieved for some reason, until he noticed the way Lydia and Danny were looking at him. The buzzing under his skin returned almost in full force, and Jackson nearly groaned at the quiet bliss that had slipped away.

“What,” he grit out, and almost grabbed a few french fries off his plate just to give him something to do, but his stomach churned uncomfortably.

Lydia shrugged, made a humming noise, and then went back to her phone. Unlike Jackson she had gone for another french fry off his tray.

Danny, on the other hand, bit his lip and made a face like he was trying to figure something out. “No, like, arguments before you—Jackson!”

Jackson’s eyes snapped back to Danny. _Fuck_ , he’d been looking at Stiles again. And now Danny just looked concerned, _pitying_. Like he had the last fucking month.

Anger surged under Jackson’s skin unbidden, and the bottle in his hand crackled beneath the pressure. But he didn’t want to take it out on Danny—he didn’t deserve that, no matter how Jackson was feeling. No, there was only one fucking person he wanted to punch and yell at, and that person wasn’t acknowledging his existence anymore.

“I’m leaving,” Jackson said with fifteen minutes left of the lunch period, and Danny didn’t try and stop him.

* * *

Jackson didn’t see Stiles again until last period.

That wasn’t new—the not seeing each other. Stiles may have been ignoring him but he didn’t have to do much in the way of avoiding Jackson that semester since their classes didn’t match.

Jackson was skipping pre-calc, trusting Danny or Lydia to teach him what he missed based off his homework assignment like they had been the past few weeks. He hadn’t been able to focus lately, not that pre-calc ever really held his focus in the first place.

He was outside the main building and debating just heading over to the pool to start on his practice early, when the gym class ran by doing laps around the campus or something. Scott caught his eye first, smiling and waving in a way that had Jackson shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. Wherever Thing One was, Thing Two was guaranteed to be close by. And sure enough, when the group got closer to Jackson, Stiles popped out from where he was hidden behind Greenberg’s hulking form.

The cool brick behind Jackson’s back did nothing to keep back the hot sting of anger from earlier he’d been stewing in, and Jackson’s hands clenched in his pockets.

Stiles said something to Scott, Scott laughed, and neither of them gave him a fucking look as they passed Jackson.

Heat swelled under Jackson’s skin, and he held his jaw so tight his teeth started to ache. He’d give him one more fucking chance, one more lap, before he did something. Jackson was the one being ignored, the injured party, so where did Stiles get off on ignoring him.

Ten or so minutes later, the slip slap of sneakers on pavement alerted Jackson to the nearing gym group. Scott and Stiles were in the middle of the pack, Scott clearly not bothering to run at the speed he was certainly capable of. Jackson’s eyes followed them as they got closer, stare trained particularly hard on Stiles’ jaw. Nothing, nothing, nothing, no fucking _glance_ even in Jackson’s direction. Then, at the last second, Stiles’ head turned a fraction and Jackson’s stomach did such a hard flip flop he felt like he was getting whiplash. But, no, Stiles’ eyes just did a disinterested sweep across the building, no recognition when he hit where Jackson was, and returned to the front when he and Scott had fully passed Jackson.

And that. That was the icing on the fucking cake. Jackson deserved something better than that— _he’d_ been the one wronged whenever he and Stiles did something. Why the hell was Stiles the one acting like this?

Jackson didn’t bother to wait for them to take another lap; he had speed, he’d been fast before the werewolf business anyway, and it wasn’t like seeing Jackson and Scott and/or Stilinski at each other’s throats was anything new. No one would bat an eyelid at Jackson chasing them down and throwing himself into Stilinski. Certainly no one would turn their heads when he sent both of them off the pavement and sliding onto grass with Stiles’ back taking the brunt of their weight. No one would call for coach when Stiles’ knee flew up and nailed Jackson in the gut, momentarily allowing for Stiles to roll Jackson underneath him before Jackson recovered and rolled them back.

And no one did. No one of worth, anyway; Scott was entirely expected.

Stiles writhed underneath him, snarling, and a shiver went down Jackson’s back. A hard fist to his armpit in an attempt to knock him down made something lock in place in Jackson’s gut. Finally. Stiles was looking at him again, and his focus was entirely on Jackson for the first time in so long. This was right where he was supposed to be. Both of them.

Unsure footsteps behind him broke the moment. Stiles attention pulled to over Jackson’s shoulders and his hands stopped trying to force Jackson off, and Jackson momentarily mourned the loss of feeling.

“I’ve got this, Scott,” Stiles said, and something warm swelled in Jackson’s stomach.

Scott didn’t move though, and Jackson tensed for a blow. “I’ve got. This. Scott,” Stiles repeated, and there was a sigh behind him. Acknowledgement.

The footsteps began again, and Stiles’ attention _finally_ turned back to Jackson.

“What is your _problem_ ,” Stiles spit out, his eyes carrying every bit of rage his voice did. He wasn’t fucking around, and Jackson almost felt giddy.

“You know what it is,” Jackson said, and his voice carried some of the anger he’d been feeling for so long now.

“What? Doing what you asked?” Stiles said, and he tore his eyes away from Jackson to look at his relative up. If Jackson didn’t have his shoulders pinned the way he did, he’d bet Stiles would’ve run his hand across his head. “You wanted me to leave you alone and I am.”

“That’s not what I want and you know it,” Jackson said, and as he spoke he tightened his grip on Stiles’ arms to make him look at him again. He did, but Jackson’s pleasure was short lived. The eyes that looked at him now had none of the rage, none of the animosity that was there before. Stiles’ face was blank, and his eyes even more so.

“Do I?” Stiles said, and his voice didn’t even sound calm. It was just nothingness.

Jackson’s fingernails dug into flesh, but Stiles didn’t make any kind of reaction signifying that he felt it. He was ignoring Jackson again, and he was right fucking there.

“Yes, you fucking do.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I never know what you want, if your reactions afterwards are anything to go by.”

Jackson flexed his hands once, twice, then snarled and released his grip, only to put his hands down on Stiles’ waist. He shifted his weight so it was more on Stiles’ thighs, but Stiles didn’t get up. Jackson went for the waistband on Stiles’ athletic shorts.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Stiles said, and Jackson was pleased to note a little tightness in his voice, something that wasn’t just disinterest.

Jackson shoved his hand beneath Stiles’ shorts, but above his boxers, and rubbed Stiles’ soft dick a little harder than was probably arousing. Stiles grunted like he couldn’t help it, and flung his hand out to Jackson’s wrist, clenching it tight.

“I’m telling you what I want,” Jackson said, and tried to pull his arm out of Stiles’ grip, but it was too awkward an angle.

Stiles blew air out of his nose harshly, and forced Jackson’s hand out of his pants. “No, you’re not telling me anything, that’s the problem. You do what you want and I—” Stiles let out another breath, and his voice started rising. “—think I’m doing what you want, but then you reject me, push me away. And I...Jackson I _raped_ you because I was going off of an assumption like usual. So no, I don’t know what you want from me.”

Jackson twisted his arm, testing the confines of Stiles’ grip, but it was unnecessary since as soon as Stiles finished speaking he wasn’t even bothering to hold Jackson’s arm still anymore; Stiles’ hand fell away easily. He was frustrated beyond belief. Here he was, _making_ Stiles pay attention to him, and yet Stiles was doing nothing normal. His skin itched and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Wasn’t what he wanted obvious?

Stiles made a move to sit up, and Jackson’s arm flew up to pin his shoulders again; he wasn’t done here.

“I want…” Jackson began softly, almost like he wasn’t aware he was saying it. Stiles bucked up underneath him, trying to get free, and Jackson pushed more of his weight onto Stiles. “I _want_ you to punch me in the fucking face!” he yelled, spitting the words out with the force of his anger.

Stiles did not have the desired response. His body went limp, his face shuttered, and he said, as much without feeling as earlier, “And then what?”

“What do you mean ‘And then what?’”

Stiles sighed. “And what happens after I do? You shit on me, push me away again for another month? Fuck buddies are one thing but you aren't even _nice_ to me. I won’t be used Jackson, so find someone else to punch you in the face. And you’re such a douchebag I bet you won’t even have to look hard.”

Stiles pushed up on Jackson again, and Jackson fell away easily. He couldn’t breath, and his body felt frozen. It fucking _hurt_ , and Jackson wanted to lash out, show him why no one rejected Jackson like that, but he couldn’t muster up the anger.

“I have a class to get back to,” Stiles said, not even looking at him, and Jackson didn’t even try to call out after him.

* * *

Jackson didn’t go to swim practice. His stomach churned, his skin felt hot, and Jackson was convinced he was going to hurl everywhere if he tried to go any further than his car. He sat hunched over in the driver’s seat, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, and waited for Danny to get out of band practice.

One of the flute players left the building, and Jackson’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t bother to check it; it was likely Danny saying he was going to help clean up and would be a few more minutes or something. It was probably time for Jackson to pretend he hadn’t just spent the last hour and a half moping in his car and was totally, one hundred percent fine.

Danny didn’t buy it. The moment he slid into the passenger seat with his schoolbag on his seat, he looked Jackson up and down and asked, “Are you okay?”

Jackson sneered to himself, started the car, and said, “Peachy.”

Danny sighed, and Jackson heard the sound of rough material shifting—probably Danny’s bag moving. “You know…” Danny said, trailing off at the end. “Ever since Jefferson’s party—” Jackson sat straight up in his seat. They were doing this _now_? “—no, I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m always here for you though, you know that right?”

He finished his words with a light squeeze to Jackson’s tense shoulder, and Jackson nodded numbly, eyes not leaving the road.

“It’d be pretty hypocritical for judging you—” Jackson’s eyes flashed to Danny out of surprise. Just what was he going to say? Did he know something about what Jackson and Stiles did? “—with me being gay and all though, so you don’t have to be afraid or anything.”

Jackson relaxed slightly, his knuckles gaining slightly more color. Oh. He thought Jackson was dealing with gay panic. He’d never meant to not inform Danny of his interest in guys, but when Danny came out to him he was with Lydia and he thought it’d be pretty rude to turn the focus of something like that on himself. Then days turned to months and he just never found the time to say otherwise.

“I still like girls Danny,” he said, not really confirming or denying anything, but he could see Danny’s grin in his peripherals.

“Okay, bi or pan or whatever.”

Jackson ran his thumb along the inside of the steering wheel and sighed. “Yeah,” he answered simply.

“That’s not what’s been bothering you, is it,” Danny said, and it wasn’t formed as a question at all. Danny already knew the answer, it was quiet defeat.

“No, it isn’t.”

Danny laughed, but the sound was by no means amused. There was the shifting heavy fabric sound again.

“I figured—Stiles has never admitted anything but he’s never really hidden his bisexuality either, and nothing you guys have been doing has screamed secret relationship,” Danny said, and his voice sounded muffled, like he was talking through his hands.

Jackson didn’t say anything, and he flipped on his left blinker. They were almost to Danny’s house.

“Just, Jackson, no matter what it is, I’ll always support you, okay?”

Jackson swallowed again, and pulled into Danny’s driveway. He forced himself to look at Danny even though it felt like his heart was trying to fuck up his throat, and smiled. It felt pained and fake even to himself, but Danny grinned back anyway.

“Danny…” Jackson started, and he grabbed Danny’s arm, squeezing it in a mirror of what Danny had done earlier. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Danny said, and he opened the passenger door.

Danny walked up to his front door, and Jackson peeled out of his driveway.

Jackson didn’t exactly feel like trying to punch through a wall with his head anymore, but he wouldn’t say he felt good either.

* * *

Jackson’s knee jiggled underneath his elbow, the weight of his upper body resting on his legs doing nothing to keep the restless energy at bay. How it was able to move after the workout he’d just done was the real question, but looking to answer it was just an avoidance tactic, and Jackson Whittemore didn’t do avoidance. Unlike a certain other person.

Jackson fell backwards onto his bed, his phone plopping down onto his bare chest, and slid his toes against the rug on the floor by his bed. He’d been staring at it for hours—the white screen and black pixels spelling “Stilinski” out were nearly burned into his retinas—but nothing had changed. It’d been easier to ask out Lydia.

What the hell was wrong with him? Telling off Stilinski was easy; he just needed to get off his fucking ass and text him. In fact, he’d do it now. Jackson lifted the phone off his chest and stared blearily at the time. 1:20am. It was late, but Stilinski had circles under his eyes way too often for him to go to bed at regular times.

He typed in a message, then deleted it almost immediately. Typed in an almost exact version of the message before, then hovered over the send button. Deleted. A message consisting almost entirely of P’s. Deleted again.

Jesus Christ he was pathetic. He typed in a message and hit send before he could change his mind again. Anxiety ate at his gut, which was stupid because Jackson didn’t get anxious.

[photo 1: shows a text screen. 1. “We need to talk” -Jackson. 2. “who are you” -Stiles.]

The reply came almost immediately, and Jackson nearly threw his phone against the wall. That shit didn’t work on anyone, and it definitely wouldn’t work on Jackson.

[photo 2: shows a text screen. 1. “You know exactly who I am” - Jackson. 2. “I think you have the wrong number” - Stiles. 3. “I’m not an idiot don’t pull this shit” -Jackson.]

Jackson waited a minute, but no reply. He waited longer, and still no reply. Stiles was trying his patience, and if he needed to text fucking Scott to get him to reply, he would.

[photo 3: shows a text screen. 1. “Stilinski I told you I wanted you to punch me in the face. What more do you fucking want” -Jackson.]

The ellipses popped up on Stiles end, signifying he was typing, then stopped. Jackson waited five minutes for a reply, but got nothing. Fucking _shit_.

[photo 4: shows a text screen. 1. “You're such a fucking asshole. Look I'm sorry I hurt your little baby feelings when I wouldn’t let you cuddle me after” -Jackson.]

He didn’t even get the ellipses this time.

[photo 5: shows a text screen. 1. “Shit. Fuck” -Jackson. 2. “Just fucking answer me okay” -Jackson. 3. “no” - Stiles.]

Finally, a fucking answer. And finally a response that isn’t trying to pretend Stiles changed his number.

[photo 6: shows a text screen. 1. “Wow great thanks for that” - Jackson. 2. “Look just. Stiles” -Jackson. 3. “Can we start over or something? Just tell me what you want okay I’m sorry” -Jackson. 4. “you just want me to punch you in the face until you get off” -Stiles 5. “i dont want to be a fuck buddy. if you want me to punch you then were going on a date first.” -Stiles]

What the. What the _fuck_. That wasn't how he and Stilinski played this game. Stilinski punched him in the face, they both got off, then Jackson pretended nothing had ever happened—that was it. So what the _hell_ was Stiles trying to do now?

Jackson felt hot, and his phone nearly slipped out of his clammy hands. It was okay, he could play it this way too. Go on a fucking date with Stilinski, but get him to put out after. Then he could get rid of the buzzing because he…he fucking _needed_ to get punched in the face, and Stiles could get his date. Everyone won.

[photo 7: shows a text screen. 1. “Fine” -Jackson. 2. “fine” -Stiles. 3. “When” - Jackson. 4. “friday. ill pick you up” -Stiles. 5. “Fine” -Jackson.]

 

* * *

 

5:30 on a friday gave Jackson just enough time to shower the chlorine smell off his body and do half his usual getting ready routine. Stiles was Stiles, so it wasn’t like he had to bother to impress him; something random out of his closet and his regular day-to-day cologne would be fine. 

Stiles was a little early in all actuality, but Jackson was ready and had been keeping an eye out—he didn’t exactly want David or Karen to answer the door. He opened the door before Stiles got the chance to ring the doorbell, and Stiles left his arm straight out and halfway there like an idiot.

“Hey,” Stiles said, a slow grin spreading across his face, and put his arm down. He was very obviously checking Jackson out, and Jackson kept himself from crossing his arms in front of his chest—he refused to act uncomfortable or unsure. At least he hadn’t brought him flowers or opened with a corny as shit ‘you look nice.’

Jackson sneered disdainfully at Stiles’ choice of attire—a jacket a step below suit over a plain blue t-shirt and a pair of nice skinny jeans—but honestly, Stiles cleaned up pretty well, and it was obvious he’d put effort into his appearance. Jackson was almost a little guilty he’d just grabbed whatever, but then again even his junk clothes looked nicer than Stiles’ best, and the sweater he had on definitely wasn’t his junk clothes. 

“Hey,” Jackson returned.

Stiles turned towards his jeep and jerked at it exaggeratedly with his thumb. What an idiot. “Soooo, you ready to go?”

Jackson frowned, but started walking towards it. “Remind me why we’re taking your piece of shit when I’ve got a Porsche.”

Stiles waited until Jackson passed before he started moving, with a light touch to Jackson’s lower back. It was surprisingly smooth, and even Jackson was a little impressed that he had at least some skills to throw at a first date, especially since it probably was Stiles’ first date.

“I invited you out, picked you up. Seems like the thing to do.”

“The Porsche is still the better option.”

The inside of Stiles’ jeep smelled like lacrosse gear, Scott, and the tree shaped air freshener hanging off the rearview mirror. Jackson wrinkled his nose and briefly considered sacrificing his hair in lieu of fresh air from an open window.

“Has your lacrosse stuff been in here since the end of the season?” Jackson said stiffly, and Stiles turned the key in the ignition.

“Na, took it in a week ago,” Stiles said nonplussed. “I kept forgetting with all that shit in the woods with the toad thing, y’know?”

Jackson sent a curious look at the side of Stiles’ face, but he was too busy driving to look over and notice it. “What toad thing?”

Stiles spared a brief, guilty glance at Jackson before returning his eyes to the road. “Oh. Um. Guess Derek never told you to come help with that.”

He seemed uncomfortable, and Jackson ran his eyes down Stiles’ form in confusion until it hit him. Oh. He probably didn’t know because Stiles had been ignoring him and had probably specifically asked for no help from Jackson. Great. Jackson was already feeling irritated and the date was barely four minutes in.

Jackson ran his hand down his thigh and let out a slow breath. “So. Where are we going.”

Stiles relaxed, seemingly grateful for the change in topic, and tapped out a beat on the steering wheel. “There’s this place with like, chicken nuggets yeah? They dress it up like parmesan chicken, like the sauce, the cheese, the whole nine yards, right? And then they pile it on french fries. It’s amazing.”

That sounded...messy.

“And that’s...good?” Jackson said, unable to hold in his incredulity.

“Mhmm, and Scott vouches for the fried mushrooms and jalapenos.”

Before Jackson could form a reply, Stiles said, “Oh! That new froyo place opened up.” And the jeep took a very sudden turn that had Jackson throwing his arm against the window to brace himself.

“Are you trying to get me _killed_?” Jackson shouted, his voice tight, and Stiles pulled into the parking lot.

“No, I think that would rather defeat the purpose of a date.”

Stiles killed the engine and leaned on his side to slide his keys into his apparently too tight jeans. Jackson stared distractedly at the way the position put his ass on show.

“Well you tried to pretend I had the wrong number the day we planned this, so I don’t know, killing me seemed like a perfect progression.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and carefully slid his hand out of his pocket. “I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“How nice. You say that shit to all your dates?”

“Nope,” Stiles said, popping the p. “You would be the first to have that honor.”

Jackson’s stomach rolled uncomfortably. Was that...were they flirting? That was too fucking weird. He had to put a stop to that immediately.

“But anyway, you coming in?”

Stiles opened his door and jumped out, his eyebrows raised expectantly, but Jackson just shook his head and leaned back in his seat.

“I’m not really into eating desserts before dinner. Especially not from a place that looks like it might top your froyo with rat shit.”

“Would it kill you to be nice for once?”

Stiles stared at Jackson anticipatorily with the door half open, but Jackson turned his eyes towards the windshield and stared hard in lieu of answering.

“Fine,” Stiles said, punctuating it by slamming the door hard enough to shake the jeep. “I don’t even know why I bothered with this fucking date,” Stiles muttered to himself as he walked (or more like _stomped_ ) to Froyo World, and he had to have been around Scott long enough to know that Jackson could hear every word.

And honestly, Jackson didn’t know either. Who fucking knew what half-assed thought had caused Stiles to even think of asking Jackson out, but clearly Stiles was invested in it enough to put effort into his appearance, and Jackson wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

Jackson ran his fingers down his jeans, smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t exist. _Fuck_. Okay. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and rested his thumb on the lockscreen for a minute or so, just breathing, before he pulled up his messages and asked Stiles to get him a cookie dough with sprinkles.

Stiles didn’t answer his text, but he had two bowls in his hands when he returned to the jeep.

“I thought you didn’t eat dessert before dinner,” Stiles said as he passed one over to Jackson.

Cookie dough froyo with chocolate sprinkles. The sprinkles were likely a poke at Jackson’s rat droppings comment, knowing Stiles.

“Yeah, well.” Jackson shrugged and didn’t continue. Instead he lifted his spoon to his mouth. The froyo wasn’t that bad; maybe he’d take Danny out here once.

Stiles made a positively filthy noise, and Jackson jerked forward, nearly choking on his spoonful. Stiles had his head leaned back as far as it could comfortably go with his eyes closed and his face in mock bliss. Jackson looked at the froyo, wondering what could be so good to warrant _moaning_ , but was met with confusion when he saw what was in his bowl.

“Plain...strawberry?”

Stiles opened his eyes and turned towards Jackson with a grin. “Can’t mess with perfection.”

Jackson didn’t have anything to say to that so he went back to his froyo, and for a while the only sounds in the jeep were the scrape of spoons against cardboard bowls. And it was really fucking _awkward_.

Stiles hummed like he was going to say something, then stopped. Jackson opened his mouth once or twice, but didn’t say anything either. The date was going to go real freaking well if this continued.

Eventually, Stiles coughed into his hand and peered at Jackson out of the corner of his eyes. “So...you liked to be punched.”

Jackson really did choke then, and he thumped himself on the chest to feel like he was helping the froyo in the back of his throat finish melting. It wasn’t the froyo that made him feel as cold as he was then. Why would Stiles want to do this _now?_

Jackson cleared his throat and said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Stiles sighed and set his empty froyo bowl down in the cup holder. “You don’t want to talk about it, but you want me to do it.”

Jackson set his down too, even though it still had a few more bites left in it; it didn’t seem that appetizing anymore. “Yeah.”

Stiles sighed again and leaned back in his seat. “Fine. We won’t talk about it. For now.”

Jackson didn’t want to talk about it _ever_ , and didn’t exactly understand why Stiles wanted to at all, but he could get through the date without talking about it for now.

The awkward silence was back, and Stiles turned the jeep back on now that he was finished with his food.

They traveled for about six more minutes before Stiles pulled into a gas station. Words weren’t really needed to explain what was going on, so they remained silent as Stiles got out and filled the tank. Stiles did a jerky little half run to the gas station, and Jackson rolled his eyes at Stiles’ ability to find the only gas station without pay-at-pump outside of Beacon Hills.

Jackson could see the cashier pretty easily through the large windows gas stations had as a whole, and the cigarette and lottery ads that covered nearly every available wall space, and because of that, he could see Stiles too. She was a pretty girl—a little older than them with curly blond hair and wide hips. He was instantly reminded of an older, and slightly heavier, Erica.

Stiles said something, and the cashier threw her head back in what Jackson imagined was a loud laugh. Jackson pressed his face to the window and narrowed his eyes at them. His stomach felt hot, and he squirmed in his seat. Stiles and Erica used to flirt once, before she and Boyd fucked off out of Beacon Hills.

Stiles smiled at her and waved on his way out. Took him long enough to leave.

Stiles slid into his seat and started the jeep up. Jackson kept his face to the glass.

“She doesn’t look like the type who wants to get punched while fucking,” he said into the window, and spared a glance at Stiles out of the corner of his eyes.

Stiles shot him a weird look, then turned to the road and drove the jeep out of the gas station.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

Jackson closed his eyes. “I don’t.”

“Then stop acting jealous.”

Jackson pushed off the window and jerked towards Stiles, anger and shame swirling hot in his belly. Stiles wasn’t even looking at him.

“I’m no—” Jackson started, then shut his mouth with a click of the teeth.

Yeah he was. Yeah he _fucking_ was. Jackson wanted to hit something, anything, to make himself feel less unsettled, but instead Jackson turned his face forward and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Stiles turned the radio on.

 

* * *

 

Stiles parked in front of a small unassuming building called “Food For Thought”—presumably the parmesan chicken nugget fries place. He grabbed their empty froyo bowls and got out of the jeep, and Jackson followed slowly with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Stiles set the garbage on top of an overflowing trash barrel and walked straight up to the doors of Food For Thought. Jackson followed a few steps behind.

The hostess sat them at a booth big enough for five, and Stiles and Jackson sat down without saying a word. The inside of Food For Thought was unremarkable; typical mom and pop diner stuff. It had more people inside than the cars in the parking lot suggested though, meaning the food was good or cheap enough for people to want to walk from the nearest bus stop.

They ordered their food in near silence, speaking only to the waitress and with as few words as possible. Jackson hadn’t been able to focus on the menu—the words had run together if he hadn’t stared hard at them, and when he had they blurred instead of becoming clearer—so he had ordered the fucking parmesan chicken nugget fries. Stiles had seemed surprised at that, and ordered something that sounded like jalapeno poppers, only instead of being breaded and fried the jalapenos and cheese were wrapped in beef and grilled.

And then there they were, two assholes refusing to open their mouths on a date and waiting on their food. Stiles fiddled with his straw wrapper, and Jackson’s leg jiggled under the table. The silence was fucking oppressive.

Jackson snorted, disgusted with Stiles and his own choices. He should’ve turned him down, gone out and found someone to fuck this Stiles and punching madness out of him.

Stiles startled at the noise, accidentally dropping the straw wrapper presumably onto the floor. He made eye contact with Jackson and sort of froze. “What,” he said flatly.

Jackson closed his eyes and shook his head once or twice. “Nothing,” Jackson started, and he opened his eyes again. Stiles was looking at him curiously. “Just, I’m a little surprised you’re not running your mouth. I didn’t think that was possible.”

Stiles frowned and spread his palms out flat on the table. “I can be quiet you know.”

“Then I’ll take it on authority that the only way to shut you up is to spend time with you.”

Stiles bit his lip and looked down at the table, lost in the black hole of stupidity that was his head probably. Jackson put his hand on his leg in an attempt to stop the jiggling.

Neither of them said anything else until their food arrived. Stiles moved both items to the center of the table, making it pretty clear that they were sharing, which was all well and good since Jackson discovered he liked the not-jalapeno poppers more.

Jackson watched Stiles with morbid curiosity as he held a handful of fries _and_ nuggets over his face and got every one of them in his mouth without making a mess. It was like watching an Animal Planet special on predators.

He pulled his eyes away from Stiles and cleared his throat. He gripped his thigh tight, almost to the point of pain, and pointedly did not let himself think about the grease he was probably wiping all over his pants.

“Why the hell did you invite me out Stiles? What do we even have in common?”

Stiles swallowed his bite and slowly placed his hand on the table. “I don’t know...we both have best friends? We’re both...passionately into living?” Stiles sighed and looked over at the condiment assortment at the end of their table. “We’re attracted to each other, I’m apparently into your shitty personality, and I know you feel something in that iced over heart of yours because you’ve done nothing but glare at the back of my head for the past month.”

Jackson’s upper lip pulled from his teeth almost subconsciously. He had gone on dates with people for less, but still. This was _Stiles_.

“And what makes you think I like you.”

Stiles whipped his eyes back towards Jackson, his face a cool mask and his eyes hard. Jackson instantly straightened in his seat, and his leg finally fucking stilled.

“I don’t,” Stiles said point blank. “But that’s what this date’s about-” Stiles shrunk in his seat then, deflating, and Jackson’s hand flexed against his thigh. “-Seeing if I want to be the the one to punch you in the face in the future.”

“And how’s that going?” Jackson asked, voice tight.

“About as well as expected.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stiles snorted. “If one day you peeled back your skin to reveal you were a bunch of dicks in a skin suit, I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.”

“You’re not exactly so pleasant yourself.”

“No, I’m not. But at least I tried to be nice tonight.”

Jackson clenched his jaw and let out a harsh breath. Stiles grabbed another french fry.

“Look I’m—” Jackson said, then cut himself off when he realized that his hand was very close to tomato sauce and chicken nuggets, and he was standing up out of his seat. What the hell was he even going to say? His mind was a frustrated knot of confusion and _fuck_. He fell back into his seat.

Stiles looked really concerned with wiping his hands with a napkin.

“There’s something else I wanted to do after dinner, but we can end this date now and I can take you home if you’d rather,” Stiles said softly, like he truly didn’t care about the outcome, but he was shredding the napkin in his hands with way too much intensity for that to be true.

Something in Jackson’s gut twisted. He put his elbows on the table and rested his forehead against his palms; if he didn’t have that weight on his arms, grounding them, it felt like they were going to vibrate right off his body.

“I want,” Jackson said into the table. He didn’t think he could look at Stiles. “I don’t want to end this now,” he continued, and on the last word, looked back up.

Stiles offered him a nervous smile and set the napkin down on the table. “Okay.”

* * *

 

Jackson almost could have been considered curious about what the after dinner activity was, that is until they pulled into the Beacon Hills movie theater. How much more cliché could someone get? 

“Dinner and a movie? Do you get all of your date ideas from chick flicks?”

Stiles killed the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. “Shut it. What else am I supposed to do in Beacon Hills? Run through the woods shirtless and covered in strange animal parts?”

Jackson opened his door. “There’s bowling.”

“Bowling’s not as fun without Scott there to laugh at.”

“Well. That’s something else we agree on beyond being ' _passionately into living_.'”

Stiles punched him in the arm, but softly, and Jackson couldn't stop himself from sucking in a quiet breath; it was so close and yet so far from what he wanted.

The movie theater was both exactly and nothing like Jackson remembered it; ugly ass carpeting, but a different pattern, a bored pimply teenager manning the ticket booth, but a different, younger looking one, and a room full of blinking arcade games, but no kids to—well no, actually that was the same.

He hadn’t been in a movie theater in years. If he cared about the movie, he waited until he could stream them, but really he’d done that when he actually _did_ go. The only difference now was that he had a car and wasn’t dependent on a dark room and anonymity to make out with Lydia.

Jackson bought his own ticket, but Stiles decided on the movie—some shitty scifi action flick that had been in theaters for over a month and was ‘so bad it had to be worth watching.’

“Scott hasn’t even seen Star Wars, can you believe it?” Stiles asked while they made their way to their seats. Back row. Stiles had chosen the _back row_. This was beginning to look a hell of a lot like Jackson’s old movie dates.

“No,” Jackson answered. Scott was a dork and dorks watched and liked Star Wars.

Silence hit again, and Jackson sighed. “Danny likes Star Wars, I think,” he offered.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” Stiles said offhandedly, and shifted in his seat to get comfortable. He ended up in a position that had their thighs touching. “Do you? Like it I mean?”

Jackson shrugged. “I’ve seen the third movie? It was okay I guess.” That was when he still went to theaters to watch movies and not for girls, and he’s pretty sure it would’ve been a better movie if he had had his tongue in someone’s throat during.

Stiles mock gasped, and Jackson rolled his eyes. Danny got like that sometimes, but in a significantly less annoying way.

“Not you _and_ Scott. What did I do to deserve this?”

Jackson would’ve answered—the set up was just way too good not to—but the lights dimmed and Stiles basically soccer mom’d him into silence, forcing him as far back into his seat as he could be. Once Jackson was leaned back, Stiles jerked away like his hand was on fire.

The previews were nothing interesting; just more typical scifi action movie stuff, and one regular action movie. It all seemed so similar to Jackson that he missed the first few minutes of the movie, just assuming it was a longer trailer. There was something about lizard people. And a space station. Some people had angel wings.

And it made zero sense to Jackson. But they were in the back row of a nearly empty theater playing a shitty movie; he didn’t need to make any sense of it.

Jackson twisted in his seat to watch Stiles, willing him to make a move, but left their thighs touching. There was an explosion on the screen, and Stiles turned to grin at Jackson, impressed with _something_ onscreen, and Jackson’s heart jumped in his throat. Stiles went back to watching the movie.

Okay. Well maybe he’d have to make the move.

Jackson pressed his thigh into Stiles’ and shivered at the solid heat. Stiles didn’t move though, didn’t even angle himself towards Jackson; his eyes were completely glued to the screen, projector light lighting up his cheekbones. Stiles did nudge him back though, lightly, and Jackson took that as a go.

“Hey,” he whispered into the space between them, leaned in closer, and brought his hand to Stiles’ chin to direct his head towards Jackson. A flat palm against Jackson’s chest kept him from going anywhere though, and Jackson frowned.

“I’m watching this,” Stiles said lightly, then turned back to the movie.

Jackson sighed. Okay then. Stiles was absolutely not getting his clues from chick flicks because he’d just done everything wrong.

He tried to watch the movie, but he just didn’t care about it like Stiles did. One of the lizard people was dying, the people with wings were definitely not angels, and the space station still hadn’t been blown up.

Jackson got to the romantic scene between the wing person and a human (or humanoid alien?) before he turned back to Stiles.

“Are you seriously watching this?” he asked, leaning in close enough to smell the fucking axe on Stiles’ body.

Stiles turned, then realized that their faces were inches apart. Even in the dim light of the theater Jackson could see him blush.

“I’m not making out with you here,” Stiles said, and Jackson smirked when it came out breathy. He probably had a fucking hard on.

“Why not? We’ve fucked in the locker room before.”

Stiles’ mouth popped open, but he didn’t turn any redder, to Jackson’s disappointment. He put his hand flat against Jackson’s clavicle, but didn’t move or flex it or anything. The heat soaked through Jackson’s chest, and Stiles’ eyes dropped down to look at it.

“But like, can you even... _you know_...without the whole punishment and punching thing?”

Jackson let out a harsh breath, more annoyed than anything. “Do you honestly think Lydia punched me?”

Stiles made a sour face, and his fingers twitched against Jackson. “I wasn’t exactly privy to your sex life,” Stiles said, and his hand trailed up to cup Jackson’s neck. “ _And_. You wouldn’t talk to me earlier. About this stuff.”

Stiles squeezed his neck lightly, and Jackson couldn’t help his noisy exhale. He swallowed underneath Stiles’ fingers, and did his best not to think about what else Stiles could be doing with his hands so close to Jackson’s face.

Stiles licked his lips in a fucking _obscene_ manner, like when he was eating those stupid parmesan nuggets, and just as easy as they had before, Jackson’s eyes were drawn to them. He inched closer, just the slightest bit so that their noses touched and he could feel Stiles’ breath against his mouth, and Stiles’ eyes slid shut.

Which of course is right when the explosion went off in the background.

Stiles jerked up, only missing headbutting Jackson’s face because he pushed him away by his grip on Jackson’s neck in a panic. He released it just as fast, and Jackson caught himself before he sighed at the loss of contact.

“Shit, Jackson!” Stiles hissed. “You’ve made me miss something important.” And then he turned back to the fucking movie again. 

Jackson spent the rest of the movie staring at ugly lizard men, and plotting Stiles’ murder because he was horny, and irritated, but mostly horny. Death by sex was winning, and of course Jackson was going to distribute the penalty. He could even watch his stupid scifi movies during if he wanted. 

The credits started rolling, the lights went on, and Jackson was standing up to crack his back. He was determined to get laid tonight, as soon as possible. Stiles, however, was still sitting in his seat, hunched over and leaning just far enough that Jackson couldn’t see his face. It’d been too long for him to still have a hard on so Jackson didn’t really get the position.

“What are you waiting on? Is there a scene after the credits?”

They ended up on youtube eventually; if Jackson cared enough he’d just watch it later.

Stiles shook his head, and looked up at Jackson. His face wasn’t the cool mask, but it was serious, and Jackson leaned back against the seats in the row in front of them in preparation.

“Can I confess something?” Stiles asked. That was kind of a...deep conversation starter.

“Go ahead.”

Stiles’ gaze dropped back down to the floor, and Jackson shifted his weight onto one foot.

“I didn’t actually plan for a movie tonight. Or even dinner where we ended up eating actually.”

It didn’t seem like Stiles was done talking so Jackson kept silent, but that didn’t really seem like that big of a deal. He’d winged dates in the past.

“I was going to treat this like when I hang out with Scott, you know? Like grab some greasy takeout and eat it in the woods. Get the lacrosse sticks out and see if I can throw a ball faster than he—or you in this case—could run. Maybe head out towards the Hale manor and see if Derek’s doing that grumpy patrol thing, and if he wasn’t, maybe set up a few pranks.-” he paused and ran his hand through his hair before continuing again “-But you’re _not_ Scott.” 

Jackson slid his hands into his pockets and stared hard at the top of Stiles’ head, trying to figure out where this was going.

“No, I’m not,” Jackson said, since it became clear after a long silence that Stiles wasn’t going to continue without input.

Stiles sighed and squirmed in his seat. He still wouldn’t look up at Jackson. “So yeah. Hopefully this wasn’t the worst date you’ve been on.”

Jackson put his weight back on both feet; his stomach felt weird, almost like it did with Lydia before they stopped their fuck buddies thing, but he wasn’t touching that with a ten foot pole. “It was,” Jackson started, unsure of what he was going to say. Stiles looked up then, his face expectant and with a hint of something Jackson hadn’t seen on his face before. “Nice,” he finished, and resisted the urge to kick at the nasty theater floor with his shoe covered toe like a nervous loser.

Stiles snorted, then spread his legs out far enough that his calf brushed Jackson’s. “Wow. You look like you’re getting teeth pulled.”

Jackson shrugged, but didn’t say anything. Stiles face broke out in a small grin that made Jackson’s stomach flip flop.

“But it probably is an actual compliment, coming from you,” Stiles said, and he finally stood up. “Well. Time to take you home I guess. Before your dad grabs the shotgun.”

He finished with a wry smile on his face, and Jackson almost felt like returning it.

“David doesn’t give a shit where I go.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “It’s a joke Jackson. You know, like that kind that makes the corners of your mouth turn up and you release that noise you’ve probably never heard in your life. The ‘ha ha ha’ one?”

Jackson punched him in the shoulder but left his knuckles on Stiles shoulder. He used them to push Stiles forward out of the aisle, and Stiles just started laughing.

“You’re such a fucking loser,” Jackson said, and it almost sounded fond.

 

* * *

 

It was almost bittersweet when Stiles’ shitty jeep pulled into the Whittemore driveway, and Stiles must have thought so too because he got out of the car when Jackson did. He walked over to Jackson’s side of the jeep and leaned faux casually against the hood.

“I don’t remember asking you in,” Jackson said slowly, and Stiles started grinning for some unknown reason. “But I’m more than a little okay with you coming up.”

Karen’s car was in the driveway, but it wouldn’t be the first time Jackson had fucked someone while she or David were in the house.

Stiles grinned even wider, and grabbed Jackson’s shoulder. For a long second or two, Jackson thought he was going to make out with him right there in his driveway, but Stiles pulled Jackson into him and wrapped his arms around him. There was nowhere else for Jackson’s arms to go but on Stiles’ waist.

“What the hell are you doing,” Jackson said into his chest, but it sounded weak even to his own ears.

Stiles’ chest rose into Jackson’s cheek bone as he breathed in, and his breath ruffled Jackson’s hair when he sighed out. “It’s called a hug Jackson. Do douchebags with Porsches not get those?” 

Jackson swallowed, and forced himself not to nuzzle in closer. He flexed his fingers against Stiles’ waist instead. “It seems more like you’re trying to gas me out with your disgusting armpits. Ever heard of deodorant? Or something not middle school like axe?”

“That’s the smell of awesomeness, but it doesn’t surprise me that you’ve never gotten a whiff before.” 

“Oh, is that what that is?” Jackson mumbled, sarcasm evident on his tongue.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered simply, and Jackson’s eyes fell shut. Stiles’ arms pulled him in tighter for a moment and then released him altogether. Jackson had to put way more effort into moving away than he’d like to admit—it was...nice. Being in that position.

Stiles caught Jackson’s elbows as he moved back, and it startled Jackson enough that his eyes jumped from where they rested on Stiles’ chest to his face. He was flushed a little, and his mouth was open slightly, and for the second time in the span of a minute, Jackson was sure Stiles was going to lean in and kiss him.

Jackson’s breath caught in his throat, and he was so fucking mad at himself for it. This wasn’t his first rodeo—he’d genuinely  _loved_ Lydia—and yet, there he was acting like a hopelessly in lust virgin about to get their first kiss.

But Stiles didn’t do that—didn’t lean down that extra bit and even _delicately_  press their mouths together, and Jackson was almost thankful for it under the disappointment. Instead he grinned in that annoyingly stupid way of his, lightly squeezed Jackson’s elbows, and then pulled back completely.

“See you later,” Stiles said with an honest to God _salute_ , and walked back to his jeep.

He watched the jeep peel down the street with his mouth hanging open, and didn’t head towards his front door until he heard one of his neighbors open theirs.

Jackson shut the door behind him quietly, and pressed his palm flat against his chest to try and make the desperate thumping of his heart quiet down too.

He actually. He actually _liked_ hanging out with Stiles. There was no punching, no getting off, and certainly no kissing, but he fucking… Some sort of deranged laugh fell out of Jackson’s mouth and his head fell back and hit the door, like he couldn’t find the ability to support it anymore.

This was so fucked up.

**Author's Note:**

> This series was supposed to be 4 porny oneshots about Jackson getting punched in the face, but this happened instead haha. So you probably have about as much of an idea of whats coming next as I do.


End file.
